The Continuing Secret Diary of Mycroft Holmes, Esq: The Hiatus Years
by Westron Wynde
Summary: Another dip into the diary of Mycroft Holmes during the years 1891-4 reveals that being the elder brother of an apparently deceased consulting detective was a good deal more trying than anyone ever knew. Expect more trials and tribulations in this ongoing series! Chapter Seven: Mr James Moriarty
1. The Late Mr Sherlock Holmes

_**In 1976, a trunk bearing the label 'Mr Mycroft Holmes Esq.' was discovered in the attic of the Diogenes Club, being the bequest of the aforesaid founder member. Inside were a number of journals, relating principally to those years when his celebrated younger brother was practising as a private consulting detective. Written in an obscure code, finally deciphered in 2008, and translated from the original mirrored Latin text, presented here for the first time is a series of short extracts drawn from the years 1891 to 1894.**_

 _ **The Continuing Secret Diary of Mycroft Holmes, Esq.: The Hiatus Years**_

Wednesday, 6th May, 1891 [1]

Sherlock is dead.

I know this because he sent me a wire informing me of this fact.

I say this is jolly inconsiderate of him. What others will think, I can only imagine.

Death is something we do not encourage in our family, as births are few and the ancestral vault is near to capacity. I recall there was a good deal of unpleasantness the last time it was opened for the internment of great-uncle Pomeroy. I should not have gone, but for a sense of obligation that required one member of our meagre branch should attend. Sherlock had avoided the debacle by claiming he had a case that demanded his attention, something about a cock-eyed cocker spaniel in Cockington. I wish now I had had the good sense to follow his example.

The service was respectful enough, but thereafter all decorum was forsaken. On opening the vault, there was some talk of having to 'jostle the coffins about' to get the newcomer in, something the gravedigger said was more than his job was worth if his governor caught him 'interfering with the dead'. It was then suggested that the men of the family might do the decent thing. To this, I objected in the strongest terms, on the grounds that it was beneath my dignity and that at least one of our ancestors buried therein had died from the Black Death.

Whether the latter was true or not, I cannot say. It did have the desired effect, however, and it fell to great-aunt Ermintrude to perform the necessary act. I can still see her now, a fine figure of a woman, tossing her feathered hat aside and rolling up her sleeves before striding into that dark hole with the determination of a soldier going into battle. After a good deal of huffing and puffing, and a few words that I did not understand (but clearly Ermintrude did, which was alarming in a woman of eighty-nine), she emerged, triumphant, smothered in cobwebs, and declared that there was room enough for ten more coffins before promptly dropping dead from the exertion.

I remember cousin Liliwin remarking that at least the old girl had saved us the expense of another funeral, his argument being that two would rest as easily as one. I dare say this may have been a persuasive argument in other families, but we do have our standards, however strange they may appear to outsiders. Thus, we sent Liliwin to heave one of the ancestors out of his coffin to make way for great-aunt Ermintrude and had the vicar say a few words.

We were at the point where the clergyman had announced ' _ashes to ashes, dust to dust_ ', when cousin Aubrey piped up with his usual rejoinder ' _if heaven don't want you, then the Devil must_ ' in the mistaken belief that because it rhymes, it must be amusing. He may have laughed, but the rest of us maintained our composure right up to the moment when the vicar inadvertently struck the coffin with his foot and great-aunt Ermintrude started hammering on the lid. She may not have been dead, but we lost three elderly members of the family to fright that day.

Thus, by general consensus and overall apathy, we try to avoid death whenever possible and frown upon those members who would call the clan together for the ritual of a funeral. That Sherlock will require one will not give them cause to remember him fondly, if they remember him at all, especially if we have another episode with great-aunt Ermintrude.

The occasion of his passing must be marked, I suppose. He has acquaintances, and from what I gather from his garbled wire – sent in the most complicated code it is ever been my misfortune to read (the juxtaposition of several letters made me think for an instant that he was in 'bed' instead of being 'dead', and had taken to his heels to avoid an overbearing woman) – he has imposed upon one in particular.

Dr Watson is a fellow of rare sensibilities. If I read the situation correctly, he is homeward bound as we speak.

This presents me with a problem.

No doubt he will come to tell me the dire news in person. I am not by nature an actor. Do I feign horror or affect my usual indifference, which in my case would be the natural reaction? I shall have to find that rarest of beasts, a 'normal' person, and ask them what they would do.

I cannot follow the example of our dear departed father. When informed of our grandfather's death, he burst into song with a rousing rendition of ' _Hearts of Oak_ ', ending with a grand flourish for the final chorus by jumping onto the dining room table and removing his shirt. I remember Mother telling me what a magnificent sight it was, despite her being struck in the eye by one of his flying buttons and the servants having a devil of time removing his boot prints from the mahogany veneer.

No one has ever questioned whether this was an appropriate response, or indeed that my father was most affected by the news. I trust the same is not expected of me. At my age, I cannot be jumping on tables, nor humiliating myself by removing my garments.

Whatever the occasion demands, I am certain that it will be of the greatest inconvenience to myself. Indeed, I foresee months of disruption. Seeing to my brother's affairs will require calls upon both my purse and my precious time. I shall have to perjure myself to have him declared dead. I shall have to lie to his friends and colleagues. I shall have to endure the misery of associating with the other members of our family.

Worse of all, I shall be doing this in the full knowledge that Sherlock is alive and well, and doing goodness knows what in goodness knows where. How long he expects me to prolong this farce, heavens only knows. If he ever does return, I may be tempted to pitch him over a waterfall myself.

 **To Be Continued!**

* * *

[1] Thus, the date of the meeting of Holmes and Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls was Monday, 4th May, 1891. According to Dr Watson, in 'The Final Problem', accounts in the press appeared 6th May ( _Journal de Genève_ ) and in the English papers on 7th May. Given that Mycroft probably doesn't have access to foreign papers (well, not on the day of publication at any rate), he has to be getting his information from his brother.


	2. Sausages and Sympathy

_**The Continuing Secret Diary of Mycroft Holmes, Esq.: The Hiatus Years**_

Thursday, 7th May, 1891

News travels fast. Bad news travels even faster.

It started with an extra slice of toast and an overgenerous helping of marmalade on my breakfast tray. My landlady, Mrs Walker, a buxom, garrulous woman, who could talk the hind leg off a donkey, as the saying goes, was unusually subdued. That she spoke in tones bordering on the reverential, which made a pleasant change for such an ungodly hour as quarter to eight in the morning, and refused to look me in the eye suggested that news of my brother's watery demise had become common knowledge.

Since I had failed to find a 'normal' person yesterday, I found myself trusting to instinct. I decided that a direct approach was the best course of action.

"Oh, Mr Mycroft, sir," said she.

I have tried in vain to stop her using my Christian name many times in the past, for familiarity, as they say, breeds contempt. That I have failed tells me either that I have not been forceful enough with my request or that she does not listen to a word I say. I fancy the latter may be closest to the truth.

"It's your brother, sir," said she, a sob in her voice. "It's in all the papers, sir, how that nice Mr Sherlock went to Europe and fell off a waterfall." She folded her hands beneath her bosom and sniffed mournfully. "My Albert, God rest him, always said how foreign travel never did no one no good. Nothing wrong with Margate, he used to say. Mind you, one year, he got the urge to go exotic and we spent a week in Weston-super-Mare. Every morning, up and down the seafront he used to go. Oh, but Mr Mycroft, sir, that wind. My hair was never right again. Albert swore it's what gave him the lumbago. We went back to Margate after that."

Somewhere in this rambling dialogue was the doleful revelation I had been expecting. Mrs Walker is a decent woman and her kippers are second to none, but I heard enough about the long-suffering Albert to last me a lifetime. If Mrs Walker said half as much to him as she does to me, I can only surmise that he died from terminal tedium.

She would have continued, but I cut her short.

"Mrs Walker, you mentioned something about my brother?"

Her face crumpled and she dabbed at her eyes with a huge white handkerchief embroidered with the initial 'A'. There at least was something for which she had cause to thank her late husband.

"Oh, Mr Mycroft, sir, it says in _The Morning Post_ that he's dead."

I once saw an actor portray shock most eloquently during a performance of _Hamlet_ at the Adelphi Theatre. I dare say having your fellow thespians suddenly switch plays to _Romeo and Juliet_ mid-stream is likely to have that effect on one. It says something for the audience that no one appeared to notice.

I could remember his expression clearly as Ophelia asked wherefore was his Juliet, and I tried to conjure that same tortured look on my own features. I fear it was less shock and more constipation, for Mrs Walker looked alarmed.

"Is it the old problem, Mr Mycroft, sir?" she inquired. "Do you need the castor oil?"

As I say, familiarity breeds contempt. I shall have to consider finding other lodgings if this persists.

"My brother, dead, you say?" I uttered in what I thought was an approximation of a strangled voice. "Dear heavens, can such things be? Oh, Sherlock, to die so young, never to call me brother again!"

I must say it was a disgraceful performance, and I felt heartily ashamed of myself. However, if it works for Irving, it will certainly do for me.

Mrs Walker was clearly impressed and patted me consolingly on the arm. This was not the reaction I had intended. Close personal contact is always something to be avoided. I quickly pulled myself together and pretended the news was an airy nothing.

"Oh, sir, you've taken it badly," said she. "You're in shock, I can see. Let me make you a nice hot cup of tea with plenty of sugar. I've just got to take the sausages out of the oven, but I'll be back in a jiffy."

"Sausages?" I asked, my feigned grief now vanquished entirely. Mrs Walker sourced her produce from Fortnum and Mason, and I have never had cause to complain. Her treatment of sausages in particular, served with mustard and a just a hint of Worcester sauce, is always a delight.

"Yes, I'd put a few on for you before I read the papers. Don't you worry about them, Mr Mycroft. You don't want heavy food like that weighing you down when you've had an upset."

"I could manage a couple, Mrs Walker. I'm feeling much better."

"A shock like that does funny things to the digestion, Mr Mycroft. My Albert, God rest him, could never stomach fried eggs after he'd had a loss on the horses. Queer old fellow he was. Now, you've more important things to worry about than sausages, sir. I'll give them to the dog. They won't go to waste."

And thus the inconvenience begins. I have already been forced to adopt a black armband, which Mrs Walker thoughtfully provided, telling me it is the custom. Now I have had to sacrifice my breakfast, something calculated to put me in a bad mood for the rest of the day.

So it proved that I barked at the cabman, who retaliated by setting me down beside a puddle; snapped my secretary, who started to weep uncontrollably; yelled at my clerk, who similarly burst into tears, an unedifying spectacle for a man of forty-seven; and rounded the day off by speaking sharply to the Home Secretary, who I then had to console whilst he shed a tear for the loss of a great man, 'one of England's finest', according to him. Clearly he knows nothing about my brother.

"Oh, Mr Mycroft Holmes," he wailed. "What shall we do without him?"

"Courage, sir," I told him. "All is not lost, Home Secretary. You still have me."

He stared at me, as though I had made an improper suggestion, and began crying all the more. As a gesture of confidence, I do not find this reassuring.

I trust that as many tears are wept for me when I shrug off this mortal coil. If overwork does not drive me to my grave, then the responsibility of my brother almost certainly shall. Perhaps then I shall find out how I am valued, for they are frugal enough with their praise when it comes to the living.

As it was, I was forced to listen to various people extolling my brother's virtues throughout the day. I began to wonder if we were all talking about the same person. Compared to the average mortal, Sherlock was a man of uncertain temper, who could, depending on how the mood took him, be loquacious, peppery, withdrawn, condescending, charming or downright rude. I have heard him berate his friend (to use the plural would be absurd) in one breath and praise him in another.

As a family, we do not see anything unusual in this behaviour. The odd thing is that it seems to have escaped others' notice as well.

Perhaps they are being polite. It is frowned upon to speak ill of the dead, after all. I can only surmise that they feel the truth would hurt my finer feelings. In this they are wrong. My finer feelings are rarely hurt or disturbed much in the slightest. In fact, I am not entirely sure I have any. Sentiment has no place in my nature or my profession. How can one offer an unbiased opinion when burdened with such excess of feeling?

The only island in this sea of grief was the Prime Minister. Described as steadfast by his friends (or unimaginative by his opponents – I dare say both are valid), he expressed his condolence for my loss in the broadest terms. I tried to move on to the matter of the census returns and the question of parliamentary reform for the burgeoning industrial towns, which he had put to me several days before, but he would have none of it.

"Now about your brother," he confided, pursuing his lips as he regarded me beneath bushy grey eyebrows, "there's a matter we need to discuss. It's of a delicate nature, you understand."

I leaned back in my chair, wondering what fresh hell Sherlock had devised for me.

"Yes, Prime Minister?"

"We had a wager. I bet him five pounds that he wouldn't bring that fellow Moriarty in alive. And, well, I was right." He seemed rather pleased with himself. "I wouldn't normally mention it at a time like this, but it's the wife's birthday next week and I'm short of funds. I'd take it out of petty cash, except we're having an audit this week."

"Yes, I see."

"And you are his heir," he said meaningfully.

I took this to mean that I had assumed his debts as well as his bank balance. I dutifully handed over the money.

"Now tell me," said the Prime Minister, pocketing his winnings, "is that brother of yours really dead?"

I tried not to be taken aback – if one professes to be omniscient, nothing should ever come as a surprise – but clearly I was no better at the task of pretence as I had been in the presence of Mrs Walker. The Prime Minster smiled, cat-like, and settled back in his chair.

"You see," said he, filling his pipe and lighting it before tossing the excess tobacco on the floor, "it says here in _The Times_ that the bodies have not been recovered. That's very odd, don't you think? I don't know how they do things in Switzerland, but if it was good English Thames water, they'd have bobbed up to the surface by now. Something to do with the gases, so my physician tells me."

I have known several Premiers in my time. They had all had their idiosyncrasies, but none have been as blunt as the current incumbent. From what I have observed of the man, he does it to disarm his opponents and annoy his wife. I dare say it has worked to his advantage, for he has attained high office where other, more sensitive souls have failed. However, I hold that there is a time and place for everything, and his suggestion seemed to me to be indelicate to say the least. Suddenly my own relations did not seem quite so eccentric.

"This Watson fellow," he went on, "can his testimony be trusted, do you think?"

Having met the good Doctor, I would have placed more faith in his word than that of any other man I know, and told the Prime Minister as much. This clearly did not satisfy him.

"I only ask because septuagenarians do not ordinarily engage in wrestling matches with men half their age on the edge of precipices. Unless they are queer in the head, that is." He leaned forward with an earnest expression. "If it had been me, I'd have shot your brother and gone off to live the good life quietly in Italy somewhere, away from this blasted rain. Now what do you think about that?"

In all honesty, it had crossed my mind. I could only put it down to the personal touch. There have been many times when I have been tempted to throttle Sherlock with my bare hands. Simply shooting him would not have been half as rewarding.

"I fear I know as much as you at this point, Prime Minister," I said diplomatically.

He was not happy with my answer, and showed his displeasure with flared nostrils and narrowed eyes.

"Very well then," said he. "If he does turn up, let me know, won't you. Only I've got a guinea in the Cabinet sweepstakes that he'll put in an appearance in three days' time. Want to join us?"

I expressed the belief that it would be inappropriate of me to do so.

"Dead or alive, you'd better hope he does appear, Holmes. It's going to be dashed inconvenient for you if he doesn't."

"It already is, Prime Minister."

"The courts are unhappy about granting a Presumption of Death before the seven years are up these days without firm evidence. Now if someone had seen him go over or we had the _corpus delicti_ …" He nodded his bear-like head in sympathy with my plight. "If it does become a problem, I dare say we can oil the wheels for you. We're like one big family here in Whitehall, we like to look after our own. Now who's arranging the funeral?"

I confessed I had not given it any thought.

"Well, you must. None of these family affairs either, mark you. I can't abide meanness when it comes sending off the dear departed. And don't let them talk you into having anything less than four horses. If you're going to do it, do it properly, I say. Added to which, the public loves a good funeral. It makes them feel valued if they get the chance to turn out and wave a flag once in a while. Now was there anything else?"

He gazed at me imperiously.

"The question of increasing the number of members of Parliament for the industrial towns in light of the recent census returns?" I suggested.

"They got their representation in the last Reform Act," said he dismissively. "We can't keep handing out seats like they're tickets to the theatre. If these folk want representation, let them move to somewhere that is already represented."

"The women would find that difficult."

His eyes bulged and he thumped the desk to make his point. "It will be a cold day in hell before any woman gets a vote from my administration. Now, stop shilly-shallying about and get on with the funeral, Holmes. That's an order. In fact, why don't you take tomorrow off to get yourself organised? Remember, England expects. No one does mourning quite like us. If you let us down, you won't hear the last of it!"

Thus do my sorrows increase tenfold. Any hopes I harboured of making this a quiet affair have been confounded by the command of the First Lord of the Treasury. I feel my poor finances buckling under the weight of expectation already.

Then, as if my day had not been trying enough, I retired to the sanctuary of the Diogenes to find that matters were about to take a turn for the worse.

The family was threatening to descend on the morrow.

* * *

 **Oh, no, not the family! Run for the hills!**

 **To Be Continued!**


	3. Gathering of the Clan

_**The Continuing Secret Diary of Mycroft Holmes, Esq.: The Hiatus Years**_

Friday, 8th May, 1891

The family deputation arrived in the shape of a cleric, a lawyer and cousin Aubrey.

I never know what to make of Aubrey. The Bard tells us that one man in his time may play many parts, and certainly that is true of Aubrey. He is one of those unfortunate souls who has never found his _métier_ in life. He drifts from one distraction to another, scattering the diversions of his life in his wake like the sweet papers dropped from the grubby hands of the children who make their tuppenny toffee purchases from old Mr Hardcastle's shop at the bottom of my street. I stepped on one of their discarded sweets this morning on leaving my front door, and the sole of my shoe has been sticking to the floor ever since.

From what Aubrey tells me, he has been living for the last five years in Paris. Montmartre, so he enthuses, is to the artistic temperament what Fortnum and Mason's hampers are to the gourmet: a delight to the senses. What he has gained from living in a garret with five other starving fellows is debateable, although he tells me it has done wonders for his artistic bent.

Apparently indifferent to my own sufferings, he held court for a good hour or more about his devotion to a group called ' _The Incoherents_ ' – and knowing Aubrey, a group with a name like that seems ideally suited to his temperament – and how he rubs shoulders with a fellow called Degas who paints dancers and had passing acquaintance with another chap who cut off his ear and gave it to a lady of the night.

I suggested this was a strange gift for a man to give to any woman. When Aubrey reminded me that our great-great grandfather Hezekiah had done something similar in giving his favourite horse's preserved hoof to his wife, I felt compelled to tell him that the two incidents were not the same thing. To begin with, the horse had been dead. And our great-great grandmother had used the hoof for an inkwell. I can't imagine an ear being put to the same use.

I was spared from further revelations by the intervention of the clergy and the legal profession. The church militant was represented by cousin Endymion, a sententious, tight-lipped man, given to looking down his nose at everyone. This was a habit he cultivated from his earliest years, when his elder brother once mentioned that he had sagging jowls. That he has continued to do so now suits his air of superiority and his belief that we common sinners are beneath him. How a man who once instigated a fight with the choirmaster at an Easter Vigil ever made to the position of archdeacon is beyond me. I only trust that common sense prevails before he is elected to a bishopric.

With Aubrey on one hand and Endymion on the other, I was glad of the presence of the third member of our extended family, our expert in all things legal, cousin Sherrinford.

A man too highly educated to ever demean himself by taking a position at one of the Inns of Court, Sherrinford devotes himself to supplying others with miscellaneous facts and obsolete points of law. His chief failing – and I censure myself for saying so – is that he is a frightful bore. We once endured a tiresome Christmas in his company when he spent the better part of two hours examining the implications of eating mince pies on Christmas Day, the prohibition of which remains active to this day. I don't doubt that this is true, but my advice is never to challenge Sherrinford to a debate, for I fear that he has not exhausted his views on the subject.

Sherrinford's other drawback is he looks too much like Sherlock to have them in the same room without someone mistaking them for twins. They are close in height, colouring and age, with Sherrinford being the elder by a matter of months. Given my own dissimilarity with my brother, it has been suggested before now that Sherrinford and Sherlock are 'peas from the same pod'.

This I refute absolutely. Our mother was so puritanical in her views that she banned 'Gentleman's Relish' from the house in the belief that it was a euphemism, whilst our father was a man so opposed to any form of physical exertion that the energy required for adultery would have been beyond him. Between them, it is a wonder to me that our parents ever reached a state of agreement long enough for Sherlock and myself to be brought into this world.

Thus the family was assembled, and we addressed the question of Sherlock's death in our own unique way, which was something of a relief after the outpouring of grief the day before.

"So he's dead then," said Endymion. "I'm not surprised. He was always wayward. It must be a relief for you to know where he is for once."

Never one for the social niceties, our cousin had been absent the day we were advised not to speak ill of the dead.

"I don't know where he is," I corrected him. "They haven't found a body."

"Haven't found a body?" Endymion flared his nostrils, in the manner of an over-heated horse. "It is only a waterfall, Mycroft. It's hardly the Atlantic Ocean."

"The absence of a body will present problems," advised Sherrinford. "Did he leave a will?"

"Of course he didn't," snorted Endymion before I could reply. "Cousin Sherlock didn't have two beans to rub together. I heard he was reduced to sharing rooms in Baker Street." His eyes rolled to the heavens. "Baker Street, of all places! That a member of our family should have stooped so low!"

"I hear it's quite nice," said Aubrey.

"Anywhere is 'quite nice' compared to where you've been living," came the derisive reply. "What I mean to say is that Baker Street isn't respectable. Mind you, considering cousin Sherlock's 'occupation', if you can call it that, where else was he to go?" He stared at me down the length of his patrician nose, which necessitated his leaning so far back that he almost toppled over. "I blame you for this ridiculous state of affairs, Mycroft. We've never lost a relative to a waterfall before now."

"Are you saying Sherlock has sullied this family's reputation for unusual demises?"

"What I am saying, Mycroft, is that you have been careless in losing your brother this way. You should have reined him in a long time ago."

"As you have reined in your brother?"

Endymion's nose wrinkled in dislike. "Miles is older than me. I have no influence over him. You, however, were Sherlock's senior. He looked to you for direction."

"Most certainly he did not!"

"I always found our cousin to be most independent of mind," opined Sherrinford. "We once had a lengthy discussion over the issue of _mens rea_ , where his views were entirely individual. I doubted whether they would have stood the test of law, and I told him so, but he would not be swayed. In which case, Mycroft," said he with a scholarly sniff, "I venture to ask again, did Sherlock leave a will?"

"Yes, I believe he did."

"You are the principal beneficiary?"

"So I understand."

At this Aubrey sat up. "Principal? Do you mean he left some money to other people?"

"I should not get your hopes up," said Sherrinford. "Mycroft will not be able to touch his brother's money unless he can prove his death without doubt."

"Unfortunate." I saw a predatory gleam come to Aubrey's eye. "Mind if I ask, Mycroft, have you made a will? Only now your brother is dead…"

"I'm leaving it all to the government to go towards settlement of the National Debt," I declared. Of course, I have no such intention, but a man should not take chances when he sees that vultures are starting to circle.

"Did Sherlock leave you a Letter of Attorney?" Sherrinford wanted to know.

"Yes," I said with pause.

"You don't sound very sure," said Endymion. "You can't run his estate without authorisation." He cast a supercilious glance at Sherrinford. "Even _I_ know that."

Truth was, in the upheaval of his departure, he had cast a number of papers into my hands, told me he had made every disposition of his property, which was now my responsibility, and then had the temerity to ask me to drive a cab. If I had known then that he was planning to vanish into obscurity, I might have paid more attention to what he was saying. As it was, I was reeling from his request to hire a brougham, wait at the Lowther Arcade until quarter past nine, all the while dressed in a heavy black cloak – tipped with red at the collar, if you fancy! – and then drive his companion to Victoria.

There are many things I would do for my brother, but driving carriages is not one of them. Under normal circumstances, I would have given him a piece of my mind. As these were not normal circumstances, however, I let it pass and handed the matter over to my trusted factotum, Jenkins, who assured me that on the day all went according to plan.

I had a dim recollection that, after the exhaustion of organising these doings for Sherlock, I had taken his papers home with me. Verifying that seemed to me to be the order of the day, since I foresaw heavy expense ahead in settling his affairs.

"If you have a Letter of Attorney, signed by Sherlock, then the question of his death becomes irrelevant," Sherrinford was explaining. "To all extents and purposes, he has simply gone away, and you will have the authority to administer his estate as if that were the case. If the body is never found, then after seven years, you may apply to have his death made official."

"Until then, I have to run his affairs as though he might return at any moment?"

Sherrinford nodded.

"For seven years?"

"I'm afraid so. Unless you want him declared dead sooner, which I suppose could be arranged, if this Dr Watson fellow I read about is prepared to make a sworn statement."

It had occurred to me as possibility, which I had dismissed. Sherlock was certain he would make a return, in which case having him declared dead was a waste of time and money. Besides which, I had no intention of having Dr Watson perjure himself.

"No, that won't be necessary," said I. "Whether he is declared dead now or in seven years, it is of no concern to me."

"Good to hear that you aren't letting your grief get the better of you, Mycroft," Endymion sneered. "Which reminds me, what are your intentions for the funeral? I will take the service, naturally."

I saw Aubrey and Sherrinford exchange glances. We all remembered what happened the last time Endymion had officiated at a family gathering – the groom had ended up married to the bride's mother and the best man found himself engaged to the Matron of Honour.

"I don't want to put you to any trouble, Endymion," I said.

"No trouble, Mycroft. Where is it to be held?"

"I thought to choose a church in Marylebone, whichever is nearest to Baker Street."

Endymion's lip curled, as I knew it would. "I'm an archdeacon," he declared. "I wouldn't be seen dead in Marylebone!"

"Nor would Sherlock, so it happens," quipped Aubrey.

"I can't say I approve," said Endymion. "Still he was _your_ brother, so I suppose you know best. Although I couldn't possibly attend, I could advise on the service, from a distance, of course."

"Of course."

"Have you given any thought to hymns?"

"How about ' _For Those In Peril On The Seas_ '?" said Aubrey with a mirthful grin. It seemed to me that he was not taking the business as seriously as might be expected.

"Hardly appropriate," said Sherrinford. "There is a difference between a sea and a waterfall, Aubrey. You may be interested to learn that the official definition–"

"' _God Moves In A Mysterious Way_ '?"

"Even less appropriate," said Endymion.

"' _All Things Bright and Beautiful_ '?"

"Why?" I asked.

"It's the only one I know all the words to."

"That is because you are a heathen," said Endymion. "You spend your days with idle men and painted women."

From Aubrey's expression, I took it that it was an occupation he found most agreeable.

"Let me at least say a few words," said he. "I have some poetic ability." He rose to his feet, stood square and cleared his throat. " _'Alas, poor Sherlock, I knew him, Mycroft: a fellow of infinite intelligence, of most excellent memory– '_ "

"Yes, that's very good, Aubrey," said Sherrinford, "but I think you'll find something similar has already been done."

"By whom?" Aubrey demanded, sounding quite offended.

"Shakespeare. A play he wrote called _Hamlet_."

Aubrey shrugged this off. "Great minds think alike," said he. "Well, then, how about this?

' _A cousin I had,_

 _His name was Sherlock._

 _He fell into the water_

 _From a little rock._

 _Now he's dead,_

 _He doesn't have a bed._

 _What else is there_

 _To be said?_ '"

Sherrinford clapped, Aubrey bowed, and Endymion looked approving.

I had to disappoint them all by asserting that I could not possibly allow such frivolity at what was intended to be a solemn occasion.

"Besides which," I added. "The Prime Minister will be attending."

"The Prime Minister?" said Endymion. "What's it got to do with him?"

And so it continued. It was well into early evening before I was able to rid myself of the three of them. Endymion was still threatening to write a sermon on the shortcomings of the youth of today, and Aubrey was promising to set his poem to music. With a little luck and good judgement, I trust I shall see neither of them again before the day of the funeral.

I cannot avoid Sherrinford, however, for I have another appointment with him on the morrow, when he wishes to inspect Sherlock's will and Letter of Attorney. He says it as though it is the easiest thing in the world simply to produce them on a whim. What he does not appreciate is the untidiness of my brother's life. I have realms of his papers; now I shall have to spend the better part of my evening searching through his correspondence, when I should be enjoying Mrs Walker's dumplings and catching up with the late editions.

And this inconvenience is only the beginning.

At this rate, I might be tempted to follow Sherlock's excellent example and absent myself from daily life. The only thing stopping me is the thought of Aubrey, Endymion and Sherrinford planning _my_ funeral.

* * *

 **Get a good night's rest, Mycroft. I get the feeling tomorrow won't be any better!**

 **To Be Continued!**


	4. The Return of Dr Watson

_**The Continuing Secret Diary**_ _ **of Mycroft Holmes, Esq.:**_ _ **The Hiatus Years**_

Saturday, 9th May, 1891

There occurred today a most regrettable incident, one which shall plague my conscience to my dying day. The Recording Angel has surely noted it against me, and it is no more than I deserve. To say that it was done with the best of intentions hardly mitigates my part in the sorry episode, and I stand convicted by my own pen.

However, mine is not the lion's share of the blame. I relate the following events in the expectation that should one day Sherlock read these diaries of mine, then he will know the suffering he has caused.

To begin with, the day did not start well. I had stayed up till half past three, attempting to bring order to the chaos that surrounds my brother's life. I did eventually find both a Will and a Letter of Attorney, properly attested and signed, filed inexplicably under 'M'.

There seemed no rhyme or reason to the thing. I toyed with 'M' for murder, for heaven knows there is a long line of people who would wish Sherlock removed in such a fashion. I considered briefly 'M' for Moriarty, until I concluded that it was reference to my own name, with the intention that I should find it and know what to do with it.

But then I should not be surprised. Having acquainted myself with his index, a man who files 'Victor Lynch' under 'V' along with 'Voyage of the _Gloria Scott_ ', when both would be better located elsewhere, and inexplicably puts 'Vampirism' among the entries beginning with 'VO', has an appalling disregard for the good practices of dictionaries across the world that borders on the perverse.

Out of interest, I looked up my own entry. Under 'Mycroft', I found simply 'Brother'. I know Sherlock has said in the past that he retains nothing in that empty of head of his which is not useful to his profession, but having to remind yourself as to the identity of blood relations seems to me to be taking the exercise too far.

As to my file of papers, Sherlock had also included a long letter of instructions, detailing the course of action to be taken in any given eventuality.

Should he die, then everything was mine to do with as I saw fit, a dubious inheritance if ever there was one.

Should he survive but be unable to return, on no account was I to dismantle his life. His rooms were to be maintained and kept as he had left them, and not a hair was to be displaced without his permission. The only exception to his he extended to his once fellow lodger, Dr Watson, who, he said, was free to remove any of his possessions, and anything small token he wished, within reason. What that might include, he left to my own discretion. I felt myself tempted to allow the good Doctor to remove it all, confident that Sherlock would neither approve nor be able to do anything about it.

The letter ended with a stern warning that, should he forced into hiding, that I was to support whatever story he had invented to explain his absence. On no account and under no circumstances was I to be permitted to allow Dr Watson into my confidence.

This document is, if proof were ever needed, of the scant regard Sherlock has for his fellow man. The burden heaped on me was considerable. Sherlock had handed me the white elephant of his life and expected me to tend it with as much care as from his own hand. I was to feed his lies and bolster his falsehoods. Worse, I was going to have to come up with some feasible excuse when I told his landlady about my intention to maintain his rooms. It was tantamount to creating a shrine, and few sensible women want such a thing on their premises. Grief has its limits, after all.

Thus it was in poor spirits that I roused myself at the hour of ten in time to make the journey to the Diogenes Club to meet with cousin Sherringford. Mrs Walker had been of some consolation in providing an unusually generous helping of sausages for breakfast. Any pleasing result this had produced in me was promptly soured when I was presented with a black arm-band, as, according to her, in my sorrow I had overlooked the usual etiquette. In fact, I had not; I had been avoiding the obligation for as long as possible. It is bad enough when one's collars pinch. To have the circulation cut off in one's arm as well is too much to bear.

The day proceeded to go downhill from there. My breakfast spoilt and my arm numb, I took my leave of my lodgings, only to find myself pursued by Mrs Walker's yappy little dog, Tiny. That a creature so small is capable of so much noise is quite remarkable. It also has a voracious appetite for sausages, and it has always regarded me as its principal competition.

So when I came downstairs, the odour of prime pork wafting about me, I scarce had time to register the black streak that flew from the kitchen door before I felt its sharp little teeth sink into my ankle. I fear a few uncharitable words escaped me in my attempt to swat the beast away from my person with my file of papers. The little monster switched its attention to a new target, and before I could stop him, he had snatched the Letter of Attorney from my grasp and borne it away into the kitchen.

I hurried after him, too late, for by the time I arrived on the scene, he had torn the document apart. Ripped shreds hung from his jaws, and the limp carcass of papers he held down with his paws implored the high heavens to witness its mauling with fragmented peaks inscribed with meaningless 'whereases' and 'wherefores'. I retrieved what I could, cursed the little devil and hoped that enough remained legible beneath the paw prints and canine saliva to please cousin Sherrinford.

In the event, I decided against showing him. When he had inspected the will and declared himself satisfied that it was a legal and properly attested document, I sounded him out on the consequences of a Letter of Attorney being destroyed, albeit accidentally.

"Well, that is most serious," said he, looking down at me along the length of his nose on which perched a ridiculously small pair of glasses. "It would render the document null and void. Are you saying that that is what has happened in this case?"

"No, of course not," I said hurriedly. "A mere speculation on my part, nothing more. The Letter is safe and sound."

"I am glad to hear it, cousin," he said. "For it would make the task of administering your brother's estate most difficult indeed. But as you say you have the document, we do not need to concern ourselves with such an eventually. Do you have it with you?"

I made some vague excuse about not anticipating that I would need it and having left it at my lodgings. Sherrinford was in the midst of expressing his dismay when the club valet, Simpkins, entered. I say entered when I do of course mean shuffled. Simpkins has reached that age where he is less concerned with saving time than filling it, an attitude which sees him growing slower by the day.

"A Dr Watson to see you, Mr Holmes," said he. "I did tell him you were in conference, sir, but he maintains that he must see you. What should I tell him, sir?"

It was an interview I had been dreading since I had learned of my brother's alleged demise. I knew the good Doctor would see it as his duty to visit and pay his respects. I could have wished, however, that his scruple had got the better of him.

May God forgive me for the lies that I have told that poor fellow, for I can never forgive myself.

As it was, the whole business could have been handled better. Sherrinford knows nothing of finer sensibilities and was all for staying to interrogate Dr Watson as to the events of that unhappy day in Switzerland. I told him that it was neither the time nor the place. There would be an inquest in due course, and whatever was needed would be said on the day. I had finally succeeded in sending him on his way when who should he meet coming through the door but Dr Watson himself.

I have mentioned before the curious similarity Sherrinford bears to my brother. As a family, we find it amusing, for being a particularly humourless lot, we take what diversions we may when and where they present themselves. On this day, however, it was no laughing matter.

I have never seen the colour drain so fast from a man's face as did from Dr Watson's when he beheld this vision. The purest Parian marble has more blush than the bloodless hue of that poor fellow's skin. He stood, as if turned to stone by this Holmesian Medusa's head, unblinking, staring as a man who had seen a ghost.

Sherrinford, having all the comprehension of the average hat-stand, interpreted this stillness as a lack of familiarity, and began to introduce himself. I had to haul myself from my chair and interject before the episode could descend into farce.

"Dr Watson, how are you, sir?" I said, shaking his hand to draw his attention away from my lamentable relation. "I don't think you've met my cousin, Sherrinford."

"Sherrinford, you say?" said Dr Watson. "But he looks just like–"

"Yes, doesn't he?" I added quickly. "An unfortunate resemblance. Sherrinford is a lawyer. He was advising me on some legal aspects relating to... _recent events_."

"He means cousin Sherlock's death," said Sherrinford, blithely unaware of the misery he was causing. "Tell me, Dr Watson, were you there? Did you see–"

"Yes, thank you, Sherrinford," I said, pushing him out of the door. "It's time you were going."

"I could stay," he protested.

"Another time. I'll let you know about the other matter."

With that, I closed the door on him and turned my attention to Sherlock's stunned friend.

"My dear sir, you must forgive us. Come and take a seat. You have had quite a shock." I rang the bell and Simpkins wandered in. "A brandy for Dr Watson."

We had had the good foresight to provide the Stranger's Room with a decanter, so it was not long before a glass was thrust into my visitor's hand and something of his colour was restored.

"He looks like... I thought it was...," Dr Watson said numbly.

"I can only apologise," I consoled. "Fortunately, we do not all look like him. The rest of the family are quite normal. Well, as much as can be expected."

He finished his drink while I was speaking. I could not help but notice that the hand that put the empty glass on the side table was still shaking. I steeled myself for a most trying interview.

"Mr Holmes, you must know why I have come," said he.

It was time for me to adopt the façade of the grief-stricken brother. Truth be told, I was too tired and irritable to give it half the effort it deserved. I did my best, although I fear I still appeared somewhat apathetic to Dr Watson's eyes.

"The news came through fairly quickly," I said.

From the length of time it took him to reply, I could judge the depth of his emotion. I do not use the term lightly, but to my eyes, he appeared broken. Such souls are not easily put back together again.

"I cannot find adequate words to express my sorrow at your loss," said he finally. "I am so very sorry. Your brother was... unique."

I was tempted to say that he was also very much alive, drinking wine and soaking up the rays of an Italian spring whilst his friends mourned and I battled devil dogs. Mindful of Sherlock's instructions, however, I said nothing of this. I understood his reasoning and approved. That did not make my deception any the easier to bear.

"Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate how difficult it must have been for you to come here today."

"I had to come. I have something to show you." He delved into an inner pocket and brought forth several pages from a notebook, the backs smeared with an acre of Swiss mud and pock-marked with flying droplets from a thundering torrent of water. "It's from your brother. He left it for me, but you should read it."

To my eyes, it was an obnoxious piece of writing, full of windy self-importance. I particularly disliked his talk of 'causing pain to my friends', an inaccurate statement if ever there was one, since he has but the one friend to my knowledge, and he now as despairing a wretch as it has ever been my misfortunate to encounter. He had even had the gall to bring my name into the affair. I can set the record straight on that account. Nothing was handed to me; I had to search for it. I had the dark rings under my eyes to prove it.

This then was the sort of fanciful nonsense which would not have been out of place in a romantic novel. I kept my thoughts to myself, however, for having seen the almost reverential way in which Dr Watson had handled the letter, I gathered it meant far more to him than it did to me.

"It was regrettable," I said.

"No," he countered. "It was my fault. I should never have left him. I said I would stay, and I did not. I betrayed his trust and now he is dead."

Such sentiments are cancer to the sensitive soul. Like weeds, once they are seeded, they are impossible to shift. The flower may fall, but the root remains, ever ready to throw up new recriminations. This particular stem needed nipping in the bud..

"On the contrary, this letter reads that Sherlock knew quite well the implications of his actions. He could not run forever. A judgement would be required sooner or later. His concern seems to have been that you were far from harm's way."

I could tell from his expression that he did not believe me.

"My dear sir, it seems to me that you did all that was humanly possible for my brother. For that, I thank you. But you cannot bear the burden of responsibility. When Sherlock determined to follow this path, he understood and embraced that danger. Indeed, he revelled in it. I am only grateful that you have emerged unscathed. Had any harm come to you, my brother would have never forgiven himself. And nor would I."

"That is most generous of you, Mr Holmes."

"On the contrary, it is the truth."

He nodded, though whether he accepted it was another matter.

"I have not yet thanked you for your part in our escape from London."

"My part?" I queried.

"You drove the cab that delivered me to the station."

Such is the nonsense that Sherlock spreads about me. However, since I was bound to go along with this grim farrago, it was not my place to disillusion the Doctor. I neglected to mention that my factotum, Jenkins, had done the honours, and instead took the credit for myself. Anyone who knows me will tell you how absurd is the very idea. Still, what Sherlock wishes, Sherlock shall have. One must make allowances for the dear departed. We shall settle our account later.

Added to that growing list is the better part of the day I spent in reassuring and feeding his inconsolable friend, before seeing him safely delivered to the bosom of his family. His wife is a sensible woman, and I trust to her good care in raising his spirits. Indeed, he extended an invitation to my good self that I would be welcome to dine with them should I ever feel myself in need.

How could I accept such consideration? The food would surely turn to ashes in my mouth, and rightly so.

Talk of which reminded me that I had still Sherlock's memorial service to arrange. I sent word to Jenkins, and told him to set the wheels in motion. What did I have in mind, he wanted to know. I made some noises about being too distraught to care and told him to arrange whatever he thought fit.

With the miserable day at an end, I returned to my lodgings to find a triumphant dog and apologetic Mrs Walker, but not before sending a wire to Sherlock - heavily disguised, of course - informing him of the loss of the Letter of Attorney. I had my answer within the hour. If I had expected him to be sympathetic to my plight, I was mistaken. His message was simple, and included the name of a forger. He also had the gall to ask for money.

How he expects a man of my standing to go scurrying around the less salubrious parts of London, ferreting out dubious individuals by the name of Whistling Jack, I cannot say. Another task for the admirable Jenkins, I dare say.

* * *

 **Sunday tomorrow, Mycroft. You might finally get a rest – or perhaps not!**

 **To Be Continued!**


	5. Whistling Jack at 'The Pig & Whistle'

_**The Continuing Secret Diary**_ _ **of Mycroft Holmes, Esq.:**_ _ **The Hiatus Years**_

Sunday, 10th May, 1891

On the Seventh day, so the Good Book tells us, the Lord rested. It being a Sunday, one may reasonably expect to do the same. For me, however, there has been no such rest, for the wicked or otherwise.

I mention this, because it occurs to me that I must have been singularly bad at one time or another for such woes to be heaped at my door. I remember a particularly parsimonious parson once telling my father that we are all sinners.

"Speak for yourself, padre," he had said in reply.

Whilst I concede the point, I acknowledge the sentiment. I do not believe I have been more sinful than usual this year, yet the evidence points to the contrary.

For on this holy day, this so-called day of rest, I have had my fair share of annoyance. And it is all on account of my unholy brother.

My morning had been troubled by Sherlock's affairs, as usual. Having slept on the problem, I decided that the question of Sherlock's legal documents was best kept within the family. Our grandfather maintained that one's dirty laundry should never be aired in public – and, as he never wore any shirt more than once throughout his adult life, I dare say he should have known.

In this instance, the forging of a Letter of Attorney for one's allegedly deceased brother is a matter not to be entrusted to one's factotum. One should never place one's life wholly in the hands of another. It leads to familiarity and contempt.

On the other hand, trusting to a man who goes by the name of 'Whistling Jack' did not sound entirely satisfactory either. Having Sherlock's assurance of his trustworthiness did not banish my doubts, for my brother has many dubious acquaintances, who welcome you warmly with one hand, whilst relieving you of your valuables with the other.

Since I could not call upon the admirable Jenkins, however, I saw that I would have to rely on 'Whistling Jack'. At the appointed hour of six, so Sherlock had told me, he was to be found in Bow at a public house called the 'Pig and Whistle'. Thus I too would be found at such a place at such a time. It was not a prospect I relished.

In preparation for the ordeal to come, I had sought sanctuary at the Diogenes, and had drowned my sorrows in port after a hearty lunch. No sooner had I moved to stake my place in the Reading Room beside the fire and pass away the afternoon in the sort of quiet mediation that requires one's eyes to be closed and one's mouth to be open than I was roused by the Honourable Digby Ponsonby-Crouch.

A glance through these journals reveals that I have spent few words on Ponsonby-Crouch. A truculent man of five-and-sixty, he believes the world was created for his pleasure, and that any deviation from his preferred routine is a deliberate insult aimed at him alone. Nearly three hundred years have passed since Galileo proved that the Sun does not orbit around the Earth but vice versa, and I have no doubt that the same arguments could apply in disillusioning Ponsonby-Crouch of his muddle-headed notions of solipsism.

Being without a Galileo, however, and the fact that he has a vote on the Club's Selection Committee, means that the rest of us have to tolerate the fellow and his windy self-importance.

Save for the incident where he claimed my stockings were liable to bring the club into disrepute – I had had the misfortune to develop a hole in the heel in the middle of the day, and had sought to relieve myself of the offending garment in the Stranger's Room when Ponsonby-Crouch happened upon me – I have tried to distance myself from the odious fellow whenever I can.

On this occasion, however, he made certain that I could not ignore him by tapping me on the shoulder. He then went on to scandalise all and sundry by breaking the club's rule of absolute silence when he spoke my name in strident tones. Several members looked in our direction, chins and moustaches quivering in indignation. A few oaths were heard to be muttered and curses poured liberally upon our heads for disturbing the peace.

Such a disturbance had not been heard since our last centenarian, Lord Morris-Golightly, awoke from his slumbers with a start, declared 'God Save Her Majesty', and promptly dropped down dead in this very room exactly five years, six months and five days ago.

I remember there had been complaints at the time, at the impudence of the fellow in his refusal to pass away quietly. Even as the undertaker was carrying out his corpse, several members were arranging to have his membership revoked. I dare say this troubled him little, for he had other concerns on his mind at the time.

With the deed done – and the genie released from the bottle, as it were – Ponsonby-Crouch had no intention of standing on ceremony. What he had to say, so he remarked, was for the ears of all the members, so great was the transgression on my part.

"I know that brother of yours has gone and got himself thrown off a waterfall in some god-forsaken foreign spot, Holmes," said he, his nose aglow with indignation, "but there's a limit to all these goings-on. Your family treat this club like a boarding house for all and sundry. An endless stream of idlers and pettifoggers have been paraded through these rooms with all the brazen arrogance of a beauty parade in a brothel!"

Since the peace had already been broken, I could not stand by and let the challenge be unanswered, however justified it may have been.

"You have experience of such things?" I inquired.

His face flushed. "Why, only from what I've been told."

"Then you have been misinformed. My visitors have been a priest, a lawyer and... my cousin Aubrey."

"Ah, yes, him, the artist."

"Poet."

"He borrowed ten shillings from me the last time he was here. He said you would stand for the debt in his absence."

As he had his hand extended, I saw that he expected settlement immediately. I duly handed over the note.

"Is that all, Ponsonby-Crouch?"

He rose up to his full height of four feet ten inches and gazed imperiously at me down his nose. "If those were the least of your sins, then they could be overlooked as a natural consequence of your grief. However, this last transgression is so serious, that I am considering laying the facts before the Selection Committee."

I have heard him use this argument before. It is a toothless threat, much like Ponsonby-Crouch himself, for I am a founder member and banning me from my own club would be akin to forbidding Her Majesty entry to Buckingham Palace. Unlike our dear Queen, however, I do not have a host of other residences upon which to fall back in such an eventuality. I have oft been threatened with expulsion, usually on account of my younger sibling, and it has yet to be carried out. It is sensible to proceed with care, for I am mindful that there is always a first time.

"What is the nature of your complaint, Ponsonby-Crouch?" I demanded. "For I declare that I have done no more than partake of the chef's Brown Windsor Soup, Roast Beef and Dumplings, followed by Apple Crumble with Clotted Cream. If that is a crime – and I am certain such a case has never reached a court room – then I stand duly convicted."

Ponsonby-Crouch frowned. "You may have your little joke, Holmes, but the matter is a serious one. Do you expect us to believe that you know nothing of this latest contravention?"

"I am as perplexed as the next man."

"If the next man were indeed a member of that sex, then we should not be having this discussion," declared he triumphantly. "But you have sought to defame this club and disgrace its members by smuggling a woman into this foundation for your own purposes!"

It was not what he had accused me of, but the way he said it, as if to suggest there was any something improper about the accusation, especially with several other members keenly lending their ears to our discussion. The law of this land states that a man is innocent until proven guilty, and I had been convicted without any evidence at all.

"Whatever do you mean?" I returned. "Who is this woman? I know nothing about her."

"Indeed!" said he, arching his nose and flaring his eyebrows. It is a peculiar way of arranging one's features over which Ponsonby-Crouch has the monopoly. "She claims to know _everything_ about you!"

There was that accusatory tone again, inciting the other members to forms of violence against my person. I heard calls of 'you cad', whilst our oldest member, the centenarian Lord Whittle, he of vile tongue and even viler manners, had the audacity to throw a cushion in my general direction.

"Does this lady have a name?" I asked.

"She says she is a representative of 'the despised half of the population of these isles'."

"Good heavens! You mean she is a Conservative?"

"No, a _suffragist_ ," said he, twisting his lips into a pout of disgust. "She tried to gain admittance, but the hall porter was able to stop her before she reached the stairs. She is still down there now, arguing the case why women should be allowed in men's clubs! I ask you! You have led us into scandal, Holmes!"

"Steady, the Buffs, old chap," said fellow member Yorkie Braithwaite, a man who gained his name at Eton on account of his broad Yorkshire accent, who now deigned to step into the affray. "I'm sure it's not as bad as all that. My good lady wife toyed with the notion of women's suffrage a while back, only she gave it up. Weren't to her liking."

"That says much for her good sense," said Ponsonby-Crouch. "You showed her the error of her ways, no doubt."

"Oh, no, t'weren't none of my doing. She said she couldn't see the point of wanting equality with men when it t'were superiority what was needed."

"Impudent female," he snorted. "Who is this _harpy_ at our door, Holmes?"

I did know, or at least I suspected that I knew.

The problem with a death in the family is that it causes all sorts of relations best left forgotten to start creeping out of the woodwork. Such is the case with Cousin Ethel.

I dare say a woman who has been through five husbands in three decades should know something about the peculiar trials facing womankind. I excused myself a long time ago from attending her litany of births, deaths and marriages after her third husband fell into a vat of Yorkshire Pudding mix and was battered to death.

Since taking up the cause with membership of both the National Society for Women's Suffrage and the Women's Franchise League and subsequently learning of my government connections, she has become a frequent correspondent, insisting that I do 'something' to advance women's rights. Never a birthday or occasion goes by without some little message slipped inside a greetings card – I seem to recall her last Christmas card said: 'Compliments of the Season, Cousin Mycroft. When are we going to get the vote?'

I fear she expects too much of me. I _advise_ on policy, but I do not make it. Besides, the Prime Minister has his own thoughts on the subject, as I am sure his good lady wife has hers.

As for the present, the news that Cousin Ethel was at my door was not welcome. She had been threatening to descend for some time and my excuses had grown from tactful to downright ludicrous. I surmised that the news of Sherlock's death had given her the reason she needed.

I will not deny that the prospect of an interview with Cousin Ethel caused me palpations. I do not dispute the validity of her arguments, but I was feeling delicate and unequal to the challenge. I did not expect the mere passing of one's sibling to prevent her from having her say; indeed, if I knew Ethel, I was certain she would use it as a comment on the fragility of life coupled with the assertion that further delay was undesirable.

To say Cousin Ethel is a force with which to be reckoned is an understatement; her first husband had taken the unusual measure of walking out of doors backwards, so she would never know whether he was coming in or going out. Similarly, I had visions of lowering myself from a rope from the attic windows in order to escape.

In the event, I was spared the exertion on both my nerves and my energy by the hall porter, Templeton, who left his post to inform us that he had persuaded the lady that I was not present and she had gone on her way. Before I could breathe a sigh of relief, however, he suggested that I might like to leave by the servants' entrance, as he was sure he had seen her retiring to a coffee house across the road to await my arrival.

I thanked him for his consideration and tipped him half a crown. Accordingly, half past five saw me creeping out past the dustbins and clambering in a cab at the rear of the club. I did not breathe easily until I was past Liverpool Station.

I knew I had not heard the last of Cousin Ethel nor of the unseemly proceedings in the Reading Room. The Committee would hear of it, and then there would be the very devil to pay.

Possible punishments occupied my thoughts until the moment when the cab pulled up outside the seedy establishment known as the 'Pig and Whistle'. A faded sign swayed in the breeze, where some wag had painted a Gloucester Old Spot reposing at a fanciful country inn with a penny whistle in its mouth. A clutch of once-yellow chicks danced at its feet and a wise old cow looked on with interest.

I could have explained that the effort was a wasted one, for the name was a corruption of an old Anglo-Saxon expression, 'piggin wassail', meaning 'to be of good health'. Judging from the hostile youths lounging around the main door, however, I decided that they would be less than impressed with my attempts at education. Thus the pig whistled and the chicks danced, and I kept my silence.

Inside did not disappoint my expectations. The thin sprinkling of sawdust was barely enough to cover the boards and was scuffed and discoloured from the passage of the evening's drinkers. Men of all ages wearing of the common uniform of patched clothes and sagging hats were slumped in corners or lay insensible, heads on hands, at the tables. Against a far wall, a woman was half-draped over an upright piano, attempting to marry words to song and failing miserably.

I was already feeling incongruous, and my discomfort was not helped when the assembled throng fell into silence. All eyes were upon me, including those of a disreputable cur, which had been lapping up a puddle of ale, and now began to growl ominously.

In such situations, one should attempt to blend in. Accordingly, I made my way to the bar and asked for a small sherry.

The landlord, a large man, given to a fleshiness quite the equal of mine – to say nothing of his other guises as a grave digger and prize-winning cultivator of marrows – stared at me, before laying down his cloth and facing me square across the bar. Outwardly, he gave the impression of a calm individual; inwardly, one sensed that his ills were working within him like yeast.

"We have ale," said he. "Or we have cider. What'll it be, _sir_?"

On balance, I decided to trust to the ale. I had an experience with cider in my youth involving two young ladies, a plunger and a kitchen sink, which is best forgotten.

The ale was slopped into a tankard – from the crusting around the lip, I noted that the previous user had partaken of a pork pie with his beverage – and pushed towards me. The atmosphere was intensely hostile. Thus pressured, I was compelled to drink. More water than ale and strangely lumpy, I forced it down and declared it most refreshing. The company breathed a contented sigh and the landlord appeared satisfied.

My credentials established, I proceeded with my line of enquiry.

"I wonder if you could be of assistance, good landlord," I said. "I am looking for a man."

A rangy ne'er-do-well lounging at the bar let out a guffaw.

"Makes a change," said he. "Most of your sort comes in 'ere looking for a woman!"

"A particular man," I pressed. "He is known as 'Whistling Jack'."

The landlord eyed me with suspicion. "Mr Jack's a busy man."

"I'm sure he is."

"You 'ave an appointment?"

"Do I need one?"

He gave me a long, hard look, and then with a bored air, turned and shouted to his unseen wife.

"Woman, get upstairs and see if Jack's busy!"

A red-faced woman, as wide as she was tall, emerged from a back room, her sleeves rolled up and apron soaked in water. "Ain't I got enough to do?" she screeched. "Get up there yourself, you lazy old sot."

The conversation continued in this fashion, watched with amusement by the assembled throng, until it was decided, for the sake of marital harmony, that I should proceed upstairs and find 'Whistling Jack' for myself. It appeared the landlord made a little extra income by letting his rooms to tenants for business purposes. At least that was the impression I was given; I realised I had erred in my assumption when on entering the first room, I had the misfortune to walk in on a courting couple. The embarrassment was all mine, for they did not seem aware of my presence, and I hastily made my exit.

In the next room, however, I found a grey-haired man hunched over a desk, a jeweller's loupe in his eye, carefully applying pen to parchment. He looked up with a surly expression and scowled.

"What the devil do you want?" he demanded.

"Are you 'Whistling Jack'?" I asked.

I had every reason to believe he was the gentleman in question, for I was aware of a slight whistling sound through his broken front tooth when he spoke.

His scowl deepened. "He ain't here. Why d'you want him?"

"A matter of business."

His features softened. "Then I am he. Can't be too careful these days. That fool of a landlord would send the very devil to my door to keep the peace with that harpy of a wife." He stood, removed the glass from his eye and gestured for me to sit. "The name's Jack Whistler, by the way. Now, what can I be doing you for, mister? Is it your missus or your mistress you want following?"

"No, nothing like that, Mr Whistler. My business concerns a death."

"Can't help you there, sir. I'm a respectable inquiry agent these days."

"Gracious, no!" I protested. "You misunderstand. What I mean to say is that there has been a death in the family. My brother, in fact."

"I'm sorry to hear that, sir. Sudden was it?"

"It was for him."

"So what d'you need me for?"

"I am told," I said leaning across the desk in confidence, "that you provide that which a man may lack."

He appeared puzzled. "The love of a good woman?"

"No, Mr Whistler, _documentation_."

He sat back and gave me a hard stare. "Now, who'd be spreading rumours like that?"

"You were forging title deeds when I walked in."

He quickly shuffled his papers away.

"However, if assurances are needed, my brother recommended you."

"Did he now? I _helped_ him out, did I?"

"I have no idea, save that he spoke highly of your skill."

"Did this brother of yours have a name?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

The man's manner changed abruptly. "Well, why didn't you say so? I was right sorry to hear what happened to him. He was a diamond, sir, a 24-carat diamond. He put me on the straight and narrow, because between you and me, sir, I was a bit of lad back then."

This did not surprise me.

"He made me a deal, he did. If I put my life of crime behind me, he'd not report me to the coppers. Right glad I was of it, I can tell you, sir, what with a babe on the way and the wife complaining about her feet. In return, I was always willing to do him a favour. Now, Mr Holmes, what is it you need? It's a pleasure to be able to do this last thing for him."

Thus it was that I emerged from the Pig and Whistle, clutching the Letter of Attorney with the ink barely dried upon my brother's signature and with the condolences of every man ringing in my ears. When Mr Whistler revealed my identity, a sombre mood came over the public house and I was inundated with offers to buy me a drink. Considering the landlord's limited fare, I declared that my grief was still raw and, as generous as their offers were, I felt that I had to decline.

When I finally took to my bed that evening, it was with the thought that Sherlock really does keep some very strange company.

* * *

 **No Yorkshire puddings were harmed in the making of this chapter. Mycroft Holmes would like to apologise for the awfulness of that joke.**

 **Will Mycroft be thrown out of the Diogenes for talking? Will he escape the clutches of Cousin Ethel? Will he ever get the funeral arranged?**

 **To Be Continued!**


	6. Bells and Pipers

_**The Continuing Secret Diary**_

 _ **of Mycroft Holmes, Esq.:**_

 _ **The Hiatus Years**_

Monday, 11th May, 1891

Messers Sidebottom, Catchpole and Piddle (pronounced _Py-dell_ , as Mr Piddle was quick to point out) are a respected firm of undertakers. They lack the Royal Warrant, although that is not the guarantee of quality it once was. Her Majesty's tastes are not mine, especially when it comes to confectionery. More often than not am I disappointed, nay _revolted_ , by what passes for Violet Creams these days, despite the maker's assurances that a box of their particular brand is always to found at the royal elbow.

Elbows or otherwise, I found myself having to address that which I have sought to avoid these last few days, namely the question of Sherlock's funeral. Jenkins delicately raised the subject when I entered the office this morning and, when I muttered that I supposed I must do something, he took me aback by informing me that Mr Piddle would be arriving within the half hour.

Looking back through these musings of mine, I see that Jenkins first appeared on Christmas Day of 1889. When the Prime Minister said he was getting me something special to ease my burden that year, I expected a good scotch or half-decent bordeaux. I did not expect a factotum, or an _aide-de-camp_ , as he likes to describe himself.

I was dubious at first – after all, I have regulated my life with a view to eradicating undue irritations on the understanding that those that do occur tend to resolve themselves without intervention from me. To look at, Jenkins is an average man. That is the exact and literal truth: average height, average intelligence, average age. He would be easily overlooked in a crowd and, for that reason, I failed to see what use this ordinary little fellow could be to me.

It was only when he began to take care of those little distractions which plague every man's life that I began to appreciate his value. Now I cannot see how I ever coped without him. To think that I used to have to make a diversion to collect my own snuff! These days, it appears just as I need it without any effort on my part at all. Only the other day, I removed my shoes for a moment, only to find that he had whisked them away and had them polished while my back was turned.

Most commendable of all is his ability to anticipate, as in this instance. Some may call it impertinence; I call it a blessing. He is also a man with an infinite capacity for tolerance, which has proved useful, given some of the errands on which I have sent him on behalf of my intolerable sibling. He did not bat an eye when I told him Sherlock wanted a four-wheeler to collect Dr Watson at the arcade. Indeed, I rather think he relished the opportunity, for he returned with a hectic flush on his cheeks, the like of which I have not seen before or since.

As for today, he had reverted to his sober condition and, having discharged his duty as regards the undertaker, duly left us to the matter at hand.

Mr Piddle is a scrawny individual, who looks as though he has one foot in the grave, let alone being employed in the business of seeing others into it. At our interview, he was nervous and fiddled with the brim of his hat a great deal, worrying at it until he had flattened the curl and caused several fibres to free themselves from the hat band.

Most irritating of all was his habit of skirting the issue. I have always been on the opinion that excessive sensibility is not to be encouraged. In men of Mr Piddle's demeanour, it comes across as either ingratiating or condescending. It is also extremely tiresome.

"Did your brother have any wishes as regards..." He grimaced, and lowered his voice to a whisper, which I took to be his attempt to be deferential to my finer feelings. "Well, you _know_."

"Do you mean his funeral, Mr Piddle?"

The man blushed, as though to speak the word was to invoke some terrible fate to befall us all.

"No, he did not," I continued. "And if he did, it would be irrelevant, for he shall not be there to either approve or criticise."

"Ah, yes, of course. I quite understand. You mean in the literal sense, owing to the lack of… his earthly remains."

That was not what I meant. I was, however, losing the will to live as the conversation progressed and the effort of correcting the undertaker was beyond me. As a rule, we as a family do not make arrangements for this life or the next. If one thing is certain, it is that things never go according to plan.

Our paternal grandfather, a man given to certain fancies and queer notions, was avowedly against any suggestion that he give any thought to what should happen to his mortal remains. 'Let it be a surprise,' he used to say, but he never said for whom.

I trust he was not disappointed. I believe to this day, his is the only corpse to have taken a day-trip to the coast when his coffin somehow ended up on a Brighton-bound train. It took three weeks to find him, by which time he had been adopted by a decent family who believed him to be their Great Uncle Maurice from New Zealand. We managed to reclaim grandfather, although the whereabouts of Maurice to this day is a mystery.

"The Prime Minister, I understand, wants a _full_ ceremony," Mr Piddle continued, consulting his notes. "Would you like us to arrange a piper?"

"No, I think entertainment would be unwise."

Mr Piddle looked shocked. "Mr Holmes, you misunderstand. Many of our clients appreciate the solemnity that comes with a dirge played on the bagpipes. Then there are the bells."

"Bells?"

He nodded with assumed self-importance. "The Prime Minister gave us the authority to approach the Dean and Chapter of Westminster Abbey to have the funeral bell rung when the carriages pass by. It is a rare honour. But then your brother was a rare man."

"Tell me, Mr Piddle," I asked, "exactly how much is this going to cost?"

After a good deal of prevarication, he mentioned a figure that was thrice my usual monthly outgoings.

"As much as that?"

"And you may rest assured that our service will be of the highest quality." He cleared his throat delicately, in the manner of a pigeon uttering a 'coo'. "As to the question of the service, you will be delivering the eulogy?"

I had given the matter some thought since my discussion with our cousins. Brevity, as it was once noted, is the soul of wit, and sometimes it is better to let the silence speak for itself. When I suggested this to Mr Piddle, he looked horrified.

"But you must say something, Mr Holmes!" He sniffed delicately. "I always think something Biblical is appropriate, or something from the Bard. What was that line of his about the Duke of Clarence? ' _Methought what pain it was to drown: What dreadful noise of water in mine ears! What ugly sights of death within mine eyes!_ ' It has a certain nobility about it, don't you think?"

On the contrary, I thought it most inappropriate. Given a choice, I preferred Aubrey's offering.

"I fear I shall be too overcome with grief," said I diplomatically.

"My dear sir, you have my deepest sympathy. Is there an acquaintance perhaps, or a family member, who could step into the breach?"

Left to the family, who have not a whit of understanding when it comes to a sense of occasion, I could see the ceremony descending into the type of farce that is not moderately believable when seen in print. As to acquaintances, I could not bring myself to call upon Dr Watson. This family has already caused enough grief in that quarter without adding to his humiliation.

In the end, I told Mr Piddle I would give the matter some thought and let him know. The matter of his bill, however, concerned me. I brought it up with the Prime Minister at our meeting that afternoon. From the start, the business seemed to make him uncomfortable.

"Yes, about that," said he, busying himself with paper shuffling, "we might have jumped the gun there, Holmes."

"In what way?"

"Well," he went on, still refusing to meet my gaze, "I had a letter this morning from someone calling him James Moriarty."

"You don't mean–"

"No, this appears to be his brother. Calls himself a Colonel. So I had my Principal Private Secretary look into his story. Seems he's genuine. Well, to cut a long story short, he has made certain allegations about your brother. I don't believe a word of it, naturally."

"What exactly does this Colonel James Moriarty say?"

The Prime Minister glanced up at me from under his bushy eyebrows. "He says your brother is a murderer."

"I could say the same about his brother."

"Absolutely," agreed the Prime Minister. "But then we aren't talking about giving his brother a funeral with all the bells and pipers, are we? In the circumstances – not that I give any credence to this fellow's claims – I think it might be wiser if you make it a private ceremony. It could be embarrassing for the government if he makes a fuss, you understand?"

I did understand and was grateful for his consideration. A great weight was lifted from my shoulders and I began to feel better about the whole affair.

"It's a disgrace how this sort of thing brings out the worst in people," the Prime Minister went on. "Did you know a woman crept into the House of Commons last night and chained herself to a sink in the lavatories? She's in there now saying how your brother was her cousin and demanding the vote. The Members are up in arms, of course. They say they have to keep nipping out to the public house across the road. At least that's their excuse. There's been a decidedly beery smell on some their breaths this afternoon."

I made a note to avoid using the facilities if Cousin Ethel had taken up position there.

"I told the Serjeant at Arms to remove her, but he's refused to go near her after she assaulted him with her umbrella. He's had to send for someone from Scotland Yard. I ask you, Holmes, what is the world coming to?"

I made sympathetic noises and excused myself at the first available opportunity. My good humour lasted all the way to the Diogenes Club, where I found a letter waiting for me, demanding my presence at an Extraordinary Meeting on Wednesday of the Members' Committee on account of a gross infraction of the Club's rule of silence.

This is a fine way to treat the bereaved, I must say!

* * *

 **Oh dear, what can the matter be? Cousin Ethel is locked in the lavatory! And that nasty Colonel Moriarty, saying things about Sherlock – it's enough to make a man retire permanently to his club… if he doesn't get banned first! Can things get any worse?  
**

 **To Be Continued!**


	7. Mr James Moriarty

_**The Continuing Secret Diary**_

 _ **of Mycroft Holmes, Esq.:**_

 _ **The Hiatus Years**_

Tuesday, 12th May, 1891

I was privy today to a most curious encounter, and one that is worth the recounting.

My father was fond of telling us how important are the little things. He would say this in relation to lost pencils and keys, of which there were many, and in his eyes understandably important (especially where keys were concerned, for at one time there was not an unlocked door in our home and the servants had to go about their duties by climbing from one window to another). My lamentable brother took this to heart. To hear him talk about trifles, one would think he had invented the idea.

However, I find myself disagreeing with both of them. It is not the little _things_ so much as the little _people_ which are important. By this, I do not mean some Lilliputian fantasy, but rather those people who go about their lives in a quiet, respectable manner, never expecting much and never mattering much to anyone else. Ordinary folk, I suppose one might call them. Now consider how distressing it must be to find oneself ordinary in a family of the extraordinary. Intolerable, I dare say.

It is not a situation that would find sympathy amongst our relatives, where the ordinary is seen as trite. I remember Uncle Lemuel who took to crafting musical instruments out of objects to be found around the household. His 'Air on a Bacon Slicer' was something to be heard. When he discovered that young Sherlock was learning the violin, he presented him with a tennis racket and four pieces of twine and told him 'to get a tune out of that'. To my brother's credit, he did what he could not to disappoint, but I have never to this day been able to listen to 'Ode to Joy' without it bringing back painful memories.

As to my encounter, it took place after a trying day filled with wearisome repetition. Most of this I was able to defer to Jenkins, only to find that I was left at the mercy of the House of Commons cat, an objectionable creature called Percy. If you ask me, this perfidious pussy is indulged. I find no humour in having sharp claws raked down my ankles when I am unprepared or to have its fluffy tail thrust under my nose when I am attempting to steal a few minutes in quiet repose. Nor do I believe for one minute the general office belief that he likes me.

On the contrary, he sees me as his armchair, toy and prey rolled into one. I am giving serious consideration to getting myself a dog to keep the objectionable creature at bay.

The Diogenes is mercifully free of animals, although for how much longer I am to enjoy the sanctuary of its walls, I cannot say. My fate depends on the outcome of the morrow and I am not hopeful; certainly the golden rule was violated, but it is a harsh thing when a founding member cannot be allowed a little leeway. I have resigned myself to exile, in which case I shall either have to lower my standards and apply for Boodle's, or, as I did with the Diogenes, found a rival club. This time I shall make myself the sole member. It is the only way to ensure a peaceful life.

On arriving, however, it was to find that trouble awaited me. I had a visitor, so the porter informed me. I thought for one moment that Cousin Ethel had found me, only to remember that she was currently languishing at Her Majesty's pleasure, while the police pondered with what crime she should be charged following her removal from the lavatories at the House of Commons. From what I was told, it was late into the evening before anyone could invent a means of evicting her by which time the situation was desperate (so several of the less able gentlemen told me). With the key to the padlock flushed away and the locksmith baffled, the police had had to disconnect the sink and take both it and her into custody.

As to my visitor, I was horrified when I discovered his identity.

"He said his name was Mr Moriarty, sir," said our porter.

I do not encourage my heart to skip a beat lest it stop altogether, but on this occasion it disobeyed me. "Good heavens!" said I. "Is he a scholarly gentleman?"

"Yes, Mr Holmes, I wondered about that too. He said he was his brother."

"Did he have a military air?"

"No, sir. He seemed like an ordinary sort of gentleman, if you can call him that. A bit common if you ask me, sir."

By this point, you may imagine that I was intrigued. I took myself up to the Strangers' Room, where I found my guest waiting. A lean fellow of about five and forty years, of tidy appearance and prim in dress, he had the quiet, respectful air one associates with officials who are used to dealing with members of the public and have yet to become discontent in their role. If my brother were present, we could have played battledore and shuttlecock over my guest's life and interests, but in his absence it was enough for me that he appeared harmless. Nevertheless, I lingered near the bell to summon assistance if required.

"Mr Mycroft Holmes?" said he, rising from his seat and extending his hand.

I never shake hands. Such over-familiarity should not be encouraged, especially when the other person has a fungal infection of the fingernails.

"I am he. And you are Mr Moriarty, so the porter tells me. Which one are you?"

He quailed slightly. "I am not my brother, sir. I did not have the honour of attending University."

Nor had he been in the army, not with flat feet like that.

"I am the younger brother of the Moriarty family," he explained. "You know my brother, Professor James Moriarty, named after my grandfather."

"I am unlikely to forget him."

"Of course. My condolences, sir."

"Thank you."

"Then there's my other brother, Colonel James Moriarty, named after my father."

"Which leaves you."

"I am Mr James Moriarty."

"Named after your godfather, no doubt."

He looked taken aback. "No, Mr Holmes, I was named after my mother."

"Your Mother's name was James?"

He nodded almost apologetically. "Her parents were expecting a boy."

Had not the circumstances been so fraught, I should have taken some comfort in finding another family as eccentric as mine.

"There must have been a good deal of confusion in your house, with three boys named James."

"No, Mr Holmes, we were One, Two and Three, although my brothers used to call me Sissy."

"Boys can be cruel."

"Yes, indeed, although that was not the reason. They called me 'Sissy' meaning 'sister'. My father wanted a daughter. He never realised I was a boy until my voice broke."

I found myself warming to my visitor, despite all indications to the contrary. I gestured him to a chair and took the seat opposite.

"What can I do for you, Mr Moriarty?" I asked.

"I was hoping," said he carefully, "that you might be able to help me."

"Help you? You have a strange sense of humour, sir!"

"I fear not. I have often been told that my personality is singularly humourless. Still, it has been of use to me in my occupation."

"You are in the employ of the railways," I noted. "The sharp pleat of your trousers suggests you in a position of some responsibility. I almost made the error of thinking you were a guard on the train, given the prominence of the lines around your mouth produced by the puckering effect of blowing a whistle on daily basis. As it did not accord with the ruddiness of your cheeks, suggesting that you spend a good deal of time outdoors, I am led to believe you are a Station Master at one of the smaller rural stations, where you perform many of the duties yourself."

His eyes widened. I begin to understand why Sherlock insists on practising his art in this superficial way. It does produce a satisfying effect. Having to explain one's reasoning is, however, tiresome, which is why I have never bothered with displays of intellect.

"My brother told me that your brother, Sherlock, was able to read a man on sight," said Moriarty. "I did not realise that you were so alike."

"We are not. That is to say, we _were_ not."

He caught my correction and nodded. "You have my sympathy, Mr Holmes. Your brother was a fine man."

"I fear I cannot return the compliment."

"I should say not. My brother, the Professor, was a thoroughly bad lot. He used to pull my pigtails as a boy. I was glad when he left for school. I only ever had to see him at Christmas after that. What a trial that was every year! I never knew what to get him. He used to sit and sneer at us over the turkey. One year he put ipecacuanha syrup in the gravy to make the rest of the family ill so he would have an excuse to leave early. No, Mr Holmes," said he, sitting a little taller, "I have no grief over the loss of my brother. I am only sorry that he took your brother with him. It grieves me that there should be bad blood between our families."

"It runs a little deeper than that, Mr Moriarty."

"Yes," he said dolefully, "but it is on account of my scholarly brother that I am here today. You said I was a Station Master. That was true until 10 o'clock yesterday morning at which time my employment with the Great Western Railway was terminated. People had begun to talk, you see. Small boys were laughing at me. Complaints were made. One elderly lady hit me with her handbag and called me 'a scoundrel'. I have borne the brunt of my brother's infamy. I have lost my position, my home and the respect of the local community. I have lost everything."

"Surely your family–"

"Mr Holmes, my job was my life. Working with locomotives was all I ever wanted to do. I wanted to be train driver, but my brothers said it would bring disgrace on the family name. I have been happy as a station master. There's nothing quite like it when a 2-2-2 two-cylinder passenger express train comes rolling into your station. Why, only the other day, we had a 4-4-0 pass through. What a proud day that was!"

This gentleman was either a consummate actor or took genuine pleasure in his work. I decided it was the latter, for rarely have I seen a man able to feign the look of delight bordering on excitement that I saw on his earnest features.

"Now I find myself on the brink of destitution," he went on. "I cannot stay in this country with the shadow of my brother hanging over me. I had resolved to go to America. It has long been an ambition of mine to travel on the Pacific Railroad. To find employment there would be the culmination of a long-held dream."

"Then what is stopping you, Mr Moriarty?"

He hung his head. "When I applied at the offices of the steamship company, they laughed at me and refused me passage. After that, I must confess I did not know what to do. I have been wandering for half a day when I found myself at the door of your club."

"How did you know this was my club?"

"My brother, the Professor, mentioned it once."

I found this worrying. "In what respect?"

"He said he applied for membership and you refused him. Oh, he disliked your brother, but he hated you for that. He said one day he would get his revenge."

I was being to feel uncomfortable again. I wondered what form this revenge would have taken. There was an incident a few years ago when the Honourable Monty Butterworth came into contact with faulty wiring and his hairpiece was blown two feet into the air. At the time we put down as an accident. Perhaps it was not as innocuous as it had appeared.

"As it happens, I remember your brother's application," I said. "He indicated that he was a player of chess. That was grounds enough for refusal. We can't have the members disturbed by the rattling of pawns."

Moriarty nodded in understanding.

"But tell me," I went on, "why do you think I could be of assistance?"

"I know it is a liberty, Mr Holmes, but I am at my wit's end. If you are anything like your brother, then I know I can trust you. I have little in the way of savings, but enough to buy passage to America. But how can I leave if no one will take me? If all I have to look forward to is starvation on the streets of London, then I shall take a cab to the nearest bridge and let the Thames do its worst."

"My dear sir–"

"I was resolved to my fate, Mr Holmes. Then I found myself at your door. I throw myself on your mercy, although I deserve none for the harm my brother has done to your family. All I ask is that you find it in your heart to secure me a place aboard a ship bound westwards."

After such a plea, how could I refuse? Jenkins was summoned, passage was booked and Mr James Moriarty took his leave, with tears in his eyes and hope in his soul.

It has certainly been a lesson to me. A thousand such people pass us by every day and we give them little consideration. That a mild-mannered West Country Station Master should have such a story to tell is extraordinary. I shall never look at railway officials in quite the same light again.

* * *

 **Judgement Day tomorrow, Mycroft! Will he be thrown out of the Diogenes? Will Cousin Ethel find him? Will he ever get the funeral planned?**

 **To Be Continued!**


End file.
